


The Episode Collection

by Nativestar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Episode: s01e06 Skin, Episode: s01e11 Scarecrow, Episode: s02e01 In My Time of Dying, Episode: s03e07 Fresh Blood, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-02-15 18:44:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18675337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nativestar/pseuds/Nativestar
Summary: A Summer rewatch inspired project.  Chapter 6:  Sam's thoughts following the events of Fresh Blood.  Drabble (with the possibility of an extended version).





	1. Pilot

**Author's Note:**

> While I was joining in with the Supernatural Summer Rewatch and watching The Pilot I looked through my old fic folder and found this half finished. Missing scenes/tags/codas to episodes are among my favourite types of fic so I thought it would be cool to try and write some as I re-watch.

He doesn't know what Dean's been doing. Hunting sure, but what? Where? Who with? He has a worrying feeling that hunting alone isn’t uncommon for Dean any more.

He doesn’t want to get dragged back into hunting. He doesn’t. He’s worked too hard to break away, to make a future for himself that doesn’t involve blood and guts and weapons practice.

But he knows more about what Jessica’s cousin has done in the last year than his own brother and that just doesn’t sit right with Sam. He should know. It’s his brother, it’s _Dean_. He normally pushes it away, buries his feelings and fences them off with a sign saying ‘Family. Do not enter.’ But Dean’s here now and Sam wishes Dean could be a part of his life just as much as he doesn’t want a hunters life. It’s a divide Sam’s yet to figure out. Maybe he never will.

Then Sam sees it.  It had always been there he guesses, but he's so used to seeing it on Dean that its taken him this long to notice it.

It’s been years since they've spoken.

But seeing the amulet glistening on Dean's chest? He knows they'll be okay.


	2. Pilot: Not Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean worries about Sam, who’s doing a pretty good zombie impression. Set just after the Pilot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hello. Apparently I wrote another fic for the Pilot way back when and never posted it to this site. Bonus!

It takes ten minutes to drive to a motel.  
  
Sam's a tight ball of rage and grief, locked in an endless battle. Dean’s not sure which one is going to come out on top, grief is probably healthier but at least rage he can deal with.  
  
Sam doesn't move when Dean gets out the car to check in, doesn't acknowledge Dean when he says he'll be back in a minute.  
  
Dean pays cash and uses his real name for once, he knows they'll probably need to stay here for a while, the police will want to talk to Sam and it’s best if he isn't staying in a room paid for by Hector Aframian.  
  
Sam hasn’t moved from the car, doesn't move until Dean opens the door.  
  
"Come on, Sam."  
  
Sam wordlessly follows him to the room.  
  
This zombie impression of Sam's is starting to worry Dean, he starts thinking of things to say, something that would get a response out of Sam but nothing appropriate comes to mind. What do you say to someone who’s just seen their girlfriend bleed and burn on the ceiling of their bedroom?  
  
Dean can tell Sam’s thinking, knows the far-away look in his eyes isn’t entirely shock. It’s the same look he’d wear when figuring out math problems. Dean’s not sure exactly what Sam’s thinking though. He used to be able to guess what Sam was thinking with scary accuracy, now, he's not so sure. All he knows is that none of it is going to be good.  
  
In the room, Sam’s restless, sitting on the bed before moving to the table in the corner. It feels like he’s bottled a fly that’s now flying against the glass, looking for a way to break free. Sam looks like he wants to hit someone and if it’ll make him feel better, Dean will let him.  
  
The stench of smoke lingers on both their bodies and clothes and Dean wants to wash it away, the smell triggering memories like no other sense can, but the hell if he's leaving Sam alone for even a few minutes.  
  
"Here,” Dean digs out a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants from his duffle and puts them on the table. "They'll be a bit short but you can wear these tonight. We'll get you some fresh clothes tomorrow."  
  
Sam stares at the clothes blankly, like he's not sure what they're for.  
  
"You should get some sleep, Sam." Dean pushes the clothes closer.  
  
"What?" Sam finally looks at him and for a moment Dean's just relieved he’s got a response. _He’s not shutting me out._  
  
"Try and get some sleep." Dean repeats.  
  
Sam shakes his head as he stands. "No. No, we need to figure out what our next move is gonna be," he walks to the door, turns, and walks back to the table. It forms a circuit that he starts pacing as he continues, "That thing could still be here, we gotta move while the trail is still fresh."  
  
Dean knows it’s the lust for revenge, not rationality that’s behind Sam’s plan, but he too would like nothing more than to kill the son of a bitch himself and he hates that he’s the one who has to shoot the idea down.  
  
"Sam, whatever did it is probably long gone. The best you can do right now is get some rest, it's gonna be a long day tomorrow."   
  
"No. You can rest, but I can’t," Sam rubs his fingers into his red-rimmed eyes, "where’s Dad’s journal, Dean? Maybe there’s something in there. This is what happened to Mom, right? There’s gotta be something in there."  
  
"Sam, we’re not gonna figure out in one night what Dad hasn’t done for over two decades." Dean says calmly, aware that what he’s saying isn’t what Sam wants to hear.  
  
"Dean! That thing killed Jess, we can't just sit here!" Sam’s eyes are begging Dean to help him, and it makes Dean feel like a traitor.  
  
"We're not going to! We'll figure this out, Sam, but we can't go off half-cocked."  
  
Quickly, like a switch has been flipped, the fight goes out of Sam. He stops pacing, and there’s defeat in his shoulders as he sighs shakily. Dean’s not sure why Sam stops, he’s not convinced his words got through to him, but he decides it doesn’t really matter, not right now.  
  
"I need to do something," Sam says, and the force behind his words has gone, "I can't-- I can't--"  
  
Dean steps forward, resting his hand on Sam's shoulder. "I know, Sammy."  
  
"She's gone, Dean." Sam looks at him, and Dean hasn’t seen pain like that for twenty-two years. He hadn’t known what to do then, and he doesn’t now, but Sam’s looking to his big brother like Dean can fix this, so he has to do something.  
  
"I know, Sammy."  
  
He wraps his arms around his brother as Sam’s knees buckle, and holds him.  
  
Holds him until the dark fades to light.


	3. Scarecrow: To Be Brothers Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after Scarecrow. Sam and Dean travel to Sacramento to find their father and discover more about each other as they try to reconnect after the years apart. I was inspired by the line in IMTOD: "We were just starting to be brother's again." It made me think, at what point did they start?

Four years.  
  
People change in four years. Not the fundamentals, not what really makes them who they are, but in countless other ways. Sometimes it’s as small as changing how they take their coffee in the morning and sometimes it’s a big change, like deciding to settle down, have a family.  
  
Not being there, not knowing the events that shaped them, changed them and influenced their lives, well, it meant that understanding his brother was like trying to navigate using an old map. Some things never changed, but then there were new routes, and altered landscapes. What once was an open field was now a densely populated neighbourhood.  
  
Careful exploration was required. Noting the new features while keeping close to familiar ground.  
  
And it went both ways, something he was only just beginning to realize.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
They leave town as soon as they see Emily off at the bus station. Dean driving, Sam riding shotgun, same as always.  
  
Dean doesn’t say anything but the creases around his eyes and down the center of his forehead tell Sam he has a headache. And a pretty bad one at that as Dean's hand reaches up to rub the spot between his brows.  
  
Ever since Dean was a kid he'd always done that when he had a bad headache. Sam had figured it out when he was nine, Dean had decided that being thirteen meant he was too old to go running to dad whenever he was feeling sick. The massaging was the only sign and Sam had taken to covertly informing their dad whenever he saw Dean doing it.  
  
Earlier, Sam had noticed the bruise blossoming around Dean's eyebrow, but he seemed okay now so maybe they'd been lucky and it really was a bad headache and not a concussion. Either way, Sam’s planning on checking him over when they stop.  
  
Dean indicates and takes a left onto the main highway. After years of riding in the car with Dean, Sam knows when he’s driving aimlessly and when he’s driving with a specific destination in mind. It’s a subtle difference, but Sam can tell the turn wasn’t a last minute decision.  
  
“So where’re we headed?”  
  
Dean keeps his eyes fixed on the road as he answers.  
  
“Sacramento.”  
  
_Little bit late for that, dontcha think, Dean._ Sam bites down on the reply; it’s not going to help. Instead—  
  
“Dean, I don’t think Dad’s gonna be there.”  
  
“I know. Me neither.” Sam can hear the regret in his voice; it reminds him that Dean wants to find their father just as much, if not more than Sam. “But he was there for a reason and you know, maybe there’s something there, some clues we can pick up, give us an idea where he might have gone.”  
  
“Yeah, okay. It’s not like we’ve got any other leads on where he might be.” Sam stretches as much as he can and settles back into the seat, now knowing that they’re in it for the long haul. Sacramento must be what, a day and a half away?  
  
“How long d’you think?” Sam asks, an echo of when he was younger and constantly pestering Dean with “are we there yet?” Dean had somehow always known how far away they were, and he’d also been scarily accurate sometimes.  
  
“Just over a day. Depends if we stop.”  
  
Sam nods. There’s a degree of tension between them. Like they’re on their best behavior, trying not to slip up and antagonize the other, except they’re also trying their best not to seem like they’re on their best behavior.  
  
Don't look over here.  
  
Everything is A-okay.  
  
Normal.  
  
_Fine._  
  
It was kind of exhausting.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Five hours later and Dean isn't even trying to hide it. There’s a slouch in his shoulders and even though they've been driving for hours Dean has neither spoken nor put on any music. Anybody can see he’s exhausted.  
  
So it comes as no surprise to Sam when they stop at a motel in Wyoming rather than trading places and driving through the night. After a chest full of rock salt and spending the night tied up in an orchard with a homicidal scarecrow, Sam figures Dean not only _needs_ a night in a proper bed but that he really deserves one. Not that Dean would ever admit to that.  
  
After they check in, Dean sits on the edge of the bed nearest the door. Staring into the bathroom longingly, like a shower would be great but it’s just too much effort.  
  
Personally, Sam can’t wait to dive in the shower himself, but in a burst of sympathy he asks if Dean would like it first.  
  
“Nah, s'ok.”  
  
“Sure?”  
  
“Mmmhmmm.” Dean says and lies back on the bed.  
  
Dean’s in the same position fast asleep when Sam comes out the shower and Sam doesn't have the heart to wake him. Instead he silently unlaces Dean's boots, slips them off his feet and pulls the quilt over him before climbing into his own bed.  
  
It takes less than a minute before both Winchesters are asleep.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
“Nothing. Nada, Zilch, Zip.” Dean drops the paper onto the table. “You know, I’m starting to wonder if Dad was even here, Sam.”  
  
They’d arrived in Sacramento earlier in the afternoon and had wasted no time going through John’s various aliases trying to find a record of him at motels. If John really didn’t want to be found then it was unlikely he had used them, but they had to try anyway. In an effort to cover all the bases, Sam had suggested they also check hospitals. After the look on Dean’s face, he volunteered to take that job on himself.  
  
Dean’s been looking into anything supernatural that might have drawn John to the area but as far as they can tell there is nothing here, implying that maybe John was passing through not stopping. Even if they had left for Sacramento as soon as they got their father’s phone call they still would have found no clues as to his whereabouts.  
  
But Sam doesn’t want to give up yet, so they expand their search, looking at nearby towns and cities, trying to find a sign of something demonic or supernatural that might have caused John to pass through Sacramento.  
  
The only thing they find is a few cattle deaths that happened well over a week ago, and with no other demonic omens it’s doubtful it would have attracted any hunter’s attention let alone John’s.  
  
~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
After the second day of fruitless searching, Dean returns from a coffee run with a six-pack of beer instead. Sam doesn’t say a word and accepts the bottle that Dean holds out.  
  
_When all else fails, get wasted._  
  
They’re halfway through the six-pack, drinking in silence with some cheesy horror film on in the background when Sam finally speaks.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“What did you and Dad do while I was gone?”  
  
“We hunted. You know that.”  
  
“Yeah, but what? What did you hunt? And where?”  
  
Dean glances at Sam, wary, as if expecting this to result in another of Sam’s arguments as to why hunting is not a valid career choice.  
  
“Dude, what brought this on?”  
  
“I dunno. It's just … I was thinking … you were checking up on me. You knew what I did, you knew where I was. But I don't even know where you guys were, let alone what you were doing. And I, I'd just like to know.”  
  
“Well, Dad and I didn't know _exactly_ what you were doing. We just knew you were safe. Knew you were happy. That was enough, at the time.”  
  
“Dean. Just— answer my question?”  
  
Dean sighs. “Tell you what. Every question I answer I get to ask one of my own. Deal?”  
  
“Yeah, all right." Sam warms to the idea, quid pro quo, that’s fair. “What—”  
  
“Hey!”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I go first.”  
  
“What? No, you said every question you answer, you get to ask one. You haven’t answered a question yet, so you _can’t_ ask one.”  
  
“Yeah, but it’s _my_ idea. I make the rules and I say I go first.”  
  
Sam’s alcohol-hazed mind can’t come up with an argument against that and he huffs. Although as long as he gets a question in before Dean decides it’s a stupid idea he reallu doesn’t mind.  
  
“Fine. Go for it.”  
  
Dean grins, and Sam winces, wondering what’s coming. _If it’s anything sex related I’m not answering._  
  
“What class had the hottest chicks?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“For future reference, you know, should I ever want to take a class or two myself.”  
  
“Of all the things you could have asked me, you ask that?”  
  
Dean shrugs.  
  
“It’s a valid question. Why? What did you think I’d ask?”  
  
Sam goes back to slowly peeling the label off his bottle of beer.  
  
"Just thought you might wanna ask something … about Jess," he says quietly.  
  
"I didn’t think you’d want to talk about it."  
  
"I…" Sam considers it. "I wouldn’t mind."  
  
Jess would have liked Dean, Sam decides. She probably would have said that Dean was good for Sam, that he brought Sam out of his shell and made him live a little. And the thing is, she would have been right.  
  
"Okay then. Scrap the last question. How did you and Jess meet?"  
  
Sam smiles. And as he begins to answer he wonders if Dean knows how _secluded_ it gets in certain areas of the library late at night.  
  
An hour later, the beer is gone, Sam is pleasantly buzzed and Dean is snoring, head tipped back against the wall.  
  
They’d talked. _Really_ talked tonight. Not about a hunt or finding Dad, but about Dean’s first solo hunt, Sam’s first year in the dorms, the time Dean had spent a week in Las Vegas after a hunt. The details that at first glance don’t _seem_ important but if they changed them even just a bit, how can they _not_ be important?  
  
Dean hadn’t understood why it had taken Sam a month to ask Jess out on a date and Sam hadn’t seen the appeal in entering a burger eating competition, but really, did that matter?  
  
Sam feels like he’s starting to get to know his brother again. _Really_ know him. The Dean in his memories doesn’t match the person sleeping next to him and he’s only just beginning to realise how much he’s missed of Dean’s life.  
  
Then again, Dean’s missed so much of Sam’s too, but if the enthusiasm of Dean’s questions about Stanford is anything to go by, then Dean wants to fill in those gaps just as much as Sam.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
They stick around Sacramento another few days. But as each day passes, it looks more and more likely that John merely stopped to call them while passing through, which means he could be anywhere by now. Again.  
  
By mutual agreement they decide to call it quits.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Dean wakes up the final morning in Sacramento to the smell of coffee and the rustle of newspaper. Blearily opening an eye, he spots the coffee cup on the nightstand and beyond that Sam sitting at the table, his own coffee cup abandoned as he studies the paper closely, taking notes.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"Some kids have gone missing in Nebraska. It's got all the earmarks of a rawhead."  
  
Stretching, Dean sits up and takes a sip of coffee, letting the caffeine and Sam’s words sink in.  
  
"Rawhead? Nice, I've been wanting to try out those amped-up tasers I got. Where about in Nebraska?"  
  
"Lexington."  
  
Sam finishes writing and looks over smiling. Dean’s head is tilted to the side and Sam could see the gears working as his brother, the human odometer calculates their ETA.  
  
"We can be there in about nineteen hours."  
  
Sam nods, gathering his research to continue in the car. Nineteen hours should be enough time for him to narrow down the area they should search. Sam smiles as he realises that he’ll be reading while Dean navigates, just like when they were kids.  
  
_The more things change, the more they stay the same._


	4. Skin: On Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean waits for that one phone call he knows is never coming. Episode tag for Skin

Dean doesn't think about calling anyone at first. It's been just him and Sammy for a few months now. His most dialled number is Sam, his inbox is full of texts from Sam and its Sam who worries if he's late. Hell, Sam even makes Dean text him when he's not going to be returning to the motel room.  
  
There are few people in their line of work, and even fewer that Dean trusts. So it’s only when they’re an hour out of St Louis and he jokes with Sam about missing his own funeral that he thinks; who would actually go?  
  
It’s a sobering small number.  
  
Sam would go (if he wasn’t sitting next to a perfectly healthy, un-dead Dean) and Bobby, Caleb, Pastor Jim maybe even Joshua and of course, Dad. Assuming their Dad was even still alive and that he’d take a break from the hunt. After all, you can’t save the dead so if it was a choice between his son’s funeral and a hunt, Dean’s pretty sure he knows which one his dad would choose.  
  
He guesses there’d be maybe a handful of other hunters too, but they don’t really count. They’d only be there to pay their respects.  
  
He should call them, he thinks, the ones that matter anyway. He should let them know he’s okay.  
  
But he doesn’t. A part of him wants to wait, see who calls him first in a twisted game of _who loves me the most_. It’s pathetic he thinks, that he wants someone to reach out to him first. But he doesn’t think about it any further, because then he might realise that he doesn’t really care who calls first, he’s just waiting for the one phone call.  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
It's not until they're crossing into Illinois and a news report comes over the radio that Dean remembers just how far and quickly news travels, especially bad news.  
  
_"St Louis Police announced today that the man responsible for torturing and killing two women and attacking a third over the last three weeks was shot dead last night when he returned to the house of his latest victim. The man has been identified as Dean Winchester, from Lawrence, Kansas...."_  
  
Dean switches the radio to another station.  
  
_Dad._  
  
He must have heard about it by now. All hunters follow the news closely, looking for anything written off as unexplained that could be supernatural. Surely the death of your eldest son requires something more than silence? His phone will probably ring any moment now. Or Sam's. One of them. Dean glances down at his phone resting on the seat between them. Any. Minute. Now.  
  
He thinks about what he’d say.  
  
_"Hey Dad, rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated. Hope you're okay too."_  
  
The phone stays silent.  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
Bobby calls not three hours after they leave Missouri. He's shouting and although it's Dean on the receiving end, Sam still flinches in the passenger seat. The conversation is full of “you eejit” and “dammit Dean” and Bobby makes Dean promise that he won't have to call him to find out if he's dead or alive next time.  
  
He sounds angry, but Dean gets the message.  
  
Afterwards when they stop for gas, Dean gets his phone out and calls everyone in his phone book that’s more than just a contact. He hears genuine relief in more than one voice and when Sam goes to use the restroom and doesn’t come back again for a half hour, Dean’s glad.  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
They eat dinner in a small family diner. It’s cheap, good food and quiet, with just a family and an elderly couple sharing the place with them.  
  
The family has a couple of kids. A baby girl and a boy, either four or five years old, or maybe even six; Dean’s never been that good at guessing the ages of kids. The parents are clearly tired, too tired to run around after their energetic son who is making racing car noises as he bombs around the floor dodging tables.  
  
It doesn’t take long before the little kid falls over, hands slapping loudly against the hard lino floor, and he starts crying. Dean’s pretty sure it’s from the shock of it rather than any actual injury but only seconds later the kid is swung into the air by his father who quickly checks him over before giving him a hug. He speaks quietly into his son’s ear but Dean can still hear what he’s saying.  
  
“You’re alright, you’re okay, son. Hush now, come on.”  
  
Dean doesn’t need a hug. He doesn’t need reassurances and he’s not needy. Not in the slightest, but it really wouldn’t kill his father to let him know he cares.  
  
He’s not really hungry anymore and he leaves his blueberry pie half-eaten, telling Sam he’ll see him back at the car.  
  
Sam thinks he’s the good son, never questioning or doubting their dad. But Dean knows the man isn’t perfect and sometimes, just sometimes… The anger burns sharp and hot and it bleeds through to his voice as Dean thinks about what he’d like to say to his father right now.  
  
_"I would have thought hearing about your son's death was enough to warrant a phone call. If you actually care, obviously I'm not dead."_  
  
His finger hovers over the call button. It stays there for a full minute before the phone is thrown onto the back seat and he snaps at Sam when he joins him in the car moments later.  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
Two days pass and they’re heading to Iowa with a new hunt. Dean’s phone has been ringing on and off as the news of his ‘death’ trickles through to old friends and contacts. Sam’s even fielded a few concerned calls himself. However, there’s nothing but silence from John and Dean’s starting to realize that’s not going to change. Unless--  
  
"Hey, Sam. You got any missed calls or anything?"  
  
"No, why?"  
  
Dean doesn't say anything, and it doesn’t take long before a knowing look passes over Sam's face. Dean’s expecting sympathy and pity, maybe even a pep talk _‘it’s okay…probably bad signal…he’d call if he could’_ , but Sam’s quiet and Dean’s grateful.  
  
He thinks about leaving a message, maybe his Dad can’t call him, but Dean doesn’t have that problem.  
  
_"Dad, despite what you may have heard, I'm fine. So's Sammy. We're both fine and...uh...call me when you get this, okay?"_  
  
Unless Sam had already done that?  
  
"D'you call Dad? Leave a message?"  
  
"No."  
  
He sees Sam nod out the corner of his eye and he knows that Sam won't call their father and for once it won’t be out of Winchester stubbornness and a refusal to see eye-to-eye.  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
Five days after he was pronounced dead Dean tells Sam he’s going to hit the head when they stop for gas, but instead ducks around behind the building and fishes his phone out of his pocket.  
  
"Dad. I'm okay."  
  
He snaps the phone shut.


	5. In My Time Of Dying: Nothing Gold Can Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between the demon leaving and the paramedics arriving, Sam passes out and it's only then that Dean briefly regains consciousness.

Dean pushed his way to consciousness with a small gasp. He blinked, trying to focus his eyes. It wasn’t quite dark; there was a glow in the air, a soft light that was slowly banishing the shadows.  
  
Morning.  
  
They’d made it through to morning. He smiled, and felt slightly guilty that he’d ever doubted they would. But now that he thought about it, shouldn’t he be watching the sunrise from a hospital bed, not the backseat of his car? _Why am I –_  
  
And he remembered.  
  
He remembered the truck that slammed into his baby. The impact. The screeching metal. Then nothing.  
  
But…he didn’t hurt.  
  
Nothing hurt.  
  
Dean knew it should. He knew he should be in agony, but all he felt was…nothing. Detached.  
  
Like that time he’d dislocated his shoulder and Sam had insisted on an ER visit despite Dean’s protests that they could deal with it themselves just fine. They’d given him something for the pain, he couldn’t remember what, but the numbness and the feeling of being disconnected from both the pain and his body, felt just like this.  
  
Looking down, he could see the damage, the streams of blood, and the way his chest was barely moving with each breath. But it was like he was watching someone else. It started to creep him out as he vaguely wondered if this was how the spirits they hunted felt.  
  
_Is this dying?_  
  
If this was -- _Sam._ His brother’s name exploded to the front of his thoughts. He needed to check on Sam. He was driving. _Oh God._ Sam was driving and his father was on the side of the impact and-- _Are they okay?_  
  
He shifted his head until he could see them. Still and silent. _No, dear God, no._ He could only see part of his father’s face, but there was blood running down it and Sam’s head was tipped back against the seat in a position that had to be uncomfortable.  
  
_No._  
  
They weren’t dead. They were passed out or unconscious or sleeping, not dead. Anything but dead. He refused to even entertain the idea that he was the last Winchester alive. That wasn’t how it worked. That _was not_ how it was supposed to end.  
  
“Sam.” His voice was weak, a sibilant sound in a breath of air rather than a distinguishable word.  
  
“Dad.” Better, but not louder. It wasn’t going to wake either of them.  
  
He tried to move, but he was weaker than a kitten and slid forward only an inch before he started coughing, robbing him of air and choking on the blood in his mouth. His vision greyed out and it took a few minutes for him to regain both his sight and his breath.  
  
Dad and Sam had both been injured, even before the accident, and he told himself that was the sole reason why they weren’t waking easily. They needed rest, that’s all. He’d let them rest. They’d be fine. Just fine.  
  
He turned his head back towards the window. The suns rays were lighting up the field and he could hear the morning chorus. It was calm outside, a fresh start to a bright new day. The sky was now filled with color, from deep rusty reds to candyfloss pink, fading into blues and purples as the night sky clung on above him.  
  
Dean liked sunrises, liked seeing them as the end of a hard night’s work rather than as the start of the day. Sam was the opposite. Today was a stunning sunrise, beautiful. Although he’d die before he admitted it to Sam.  
  
And somehow he knew. Right then, he just _knew_ he was watching his last sunrise.  
  
He wasn’t coming back from this. No one could come back from this. There was no faith healer and if Sam even thought about doing something stupid then Dean would find some way of kicking his ass, even if he was dead.  
  
This was it.  
  
The thought didn’t scare him. He hadn’t expected to make it to thirty and he’d made his peace with that a long while ago. Hunting was a dangerous business and he’d figured sooner rather than later it was bound to catch up with him. _I guess sooner is today._  
  
Everything faded, and the sun became the bright spot of light at the end of a tunnel.  
  
It wasn’t the blaze of glory he’d imagined, but it was okay.  
  
He was with his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are greatly appreciated and adored. Oh, and if anyone is wondering what I did with the truck driver, well he went to call for help.


	6. Fresh Blood: State of Conscience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's thoughts following the events of Fresh Blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot how good this episode is! As if Sam's speech about looking up to his big brother wasn't enough of an emotional moment we also had Dean teaching his little brother how to fix the car.

A rivulet of pink water snaked down Sam’s arm. Dean was pliant, sitting on the bed and allowing him to gently wash away the blood. Dean’s glazed eyes told Sam all he needed to know; he needed to watch over his brother tonight.  
  
Exhaustion had seeped to his bones and movement seemed like wading through molasses. Sam sat by the window and looked up. The stars were out, a beautifully clear night sky. Shame the same couldn’t be said about his conscience. Tonight he'd killed a man with his bare hands and felt no regret.  
  
Tomorrow he'll deal with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this drabble 12 years ago. I also worked on a longer version and never finished it. I've still got the file so I might dust it off and complete it. 12 years... how many other shows can you finish a fic for 12 years later and the show is still on the air!


End file.
